math class was not a waste.

a poem:

treading on irony.

i think about
all the
things
i don't have
time to
do.
like learn how
to make
paper
cranes that actually
will fly
or
become a good
person and
do
something nice, something
sweet for
you.
instead i waste
time here;
nothing.
you won't look
at me
now.
that makes me
want to
cry.
oh, because time
is long
days
are short and
i could
make
time for you
but I
don't.

time is not
the enemy,
here.